


Where Answers Are Kept

by BrighteyedJill



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, Blindfolds, Bondage, Breathplay, Butt Plugs, Collars, Dom/sub, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Objectification, Predicament Bondage, Sub Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-03
Updated: 2015-07-03
Packaged: 2018-04-07 09:55:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4258974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrighteyedJill/pseuds/BrighteyedJill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Bucky is lying back against Steve’s chest, fucked out and fighting drowsiness, when he works up the courage to say, “There’s something I need.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Behind him, Steve tenses momentarily, then pets a hand down Bucky’s arm and makes himself relax. He’s probably caught on by now that this is how Bucky starts conversations he knows will be difficult for Steve. “Tell me,” Steve says.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where Answers Are Kept

**Author's Note:**

  * For [boopboop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/boopboop/gifts).



Bucky is lying back against Steve’s chest, fucked out and fighting drowsiness, when he works up the courage to say, “There’s something I need.”

Behind him, Steve tenses momentarily, then pets a hand down Bucky’s arm and makes himself relax. He’s probably caught on by now that this is how Bucky starts conversations he knows will be difficult for Steve. “Tell me,” Steve says.

As Bucky explains, Steve’s hand stills on Bucky’s arm and he grows quiet. Bucky makes himself continue laying out all the details without skipping the ones he suspects Steve won’t like. He’d learned his lesson after the flogging debacle. 

When he’s done, there’s a few minutes of silence, just the common, everyday sounds of the apartment: ticking clock, whir of the ceiling fan, fridge compressor kicking on, and the street sounds that float up from below of regular people going about their regular lives. 

Eventually, Steve’s hand resumes its slow tracing of the muscles on Bucky’s right arm. “And I wouldn’t touch you at all?”

“Not until the end, no.”

“All right.” Steve pulls Bucky in tighter. “I have some requests.”  
\--

Bucky waits another three seconds, until the edges of his vision begin to blur, then pushes back up on his knees against the surface of the table. The choke collar loosens enough to let him catch quick, shallow breaths. It’s the perfect piece of equipment for this, really. Bucky hadn’t asked where Steve got it, but he likes to imagine some wide-eyed clerk at a leather boutique chatting bondage gear with Captain fucking America. 

The wide leather collar has a few inches of chain on one end that passes through the metal hoop on the other end: pull on the chain, and it constricts around Bucky’s throat beautifully. He’d had to argue with Steve a bit on the length of the cable that connects the hook holding Bucky’s collar to the metal ring in the ceiling.

_“Enough that you remain conscious,” Steve says._

_“This isn’t supposed to be a walk in the park.”_

_“Conscious. That’s my limit.”_

It’s not a bad compromise, Bucky thinks. Up on his knees, with his best Sunday church posture, he can suck in just enough air to avoid feeling lightheaded. If he slouches at all, or spreads his knees, the air cuts off pretty damn quick. Bucky had wanted to be on his feet, but Steve had vetoed that, too. Bucky has to admit this position has its charms; he can get away with dropping further, choking himself harder than Steve would have allowed him the latitude to do on his feet. And the deciding factor from Steve’s point of view was that Bucky could free himself quickly. He only needed to stand up to lift the chain on his collar from the hook at the end of the cable. 

_”Just in case,” Steve says, looking at the floor. “If I can’t get to you.”_

_“In case?”_

_“In case we’re…”_ Attacked _, Steve doesn’t say, but Bucky appreciates the thought_.

Steve is finishing his dinner. Though he can’t see with the blindfold on, Bucky can smell meat and red sauce, hear the clink of silverware against china, and feel the dining table’s tiny vibrations beneath his knees when Steve puts down his glass. 

He wonders if Steve is watching him, still, after hours of this, or if Steve is ignoring Bucky like he’s some sort of elaborate and cumbersome centerpiece: a turkey trussed up and stuffed full, waiting to be devoured. The thought makes Bucky clench around the plug settled firmly in his ass. A kick of arousal sends his hips involuntarily bucking up into empty air. 

The sounds of Steve eating stop. Bucky sips in breath and marshals his control, bringing his body back to stillness.

Steve goes back to his dinner.

Without visual cues, Bucky has no way to tell with any accuracy how much time has passed. Normally his internal clock is excellent, but he can’t keep count if he can’t breathe. That’s the glorious thing about choking: it triggers an overwhelming animal fear that blots out all plans and memories, all reason. It makes the mind a white, screaming blank. Which means that, in this case, Bucky can’t tell for certain if he has an hour left, or three, or ten minutes. 

_”Twelve hours,” Bucky offers._

_“Two.”_

_Bucky snorts, slightly insulted. “Eight.”_

_“Four.”_

_“Seven.”_

_“Five. Just—for a start, okay. We’ll see how it goes.” Steve looks so earnest about it, Bucky nods his agreement._

Steve picks up his dishes and walks into the kitchen. While his back is (probably) turned, Bucky takes the opportunity to relax aching muscles. Doing so drops more weight against the collar, but that doesn’t faze him. It’s a different kind of pain, and Bucky long ago made friends with pain. 

His knees creak as he rocks back along his calves to give them a break. He stretches his arms as far as he can to the sides with his wrists tied to D-rings on either side of the collar, secured with Steve’s Boy Scout-neat knots. Then he curls his back, stretching overtaxed muscles but pulling the collar much tighter. 

Through the roar of blood in his ears, Bucky hears Steve's heavy steps approaching at speed. He pushes himself back up to attention, slackening the chain and giving him enough room to huff in a quick breath. He stays there despite the burn of exhausted muscles. He knows he’s sweating: rivulets tracing itchy trails down his naked skin. He must be flushed, too; he can feel his cheeks burning. Muscle tremors have started in his thighs, but they’re not bad yet, not debilitating. He can endure much worse. He’s strong. And he shows Steve that by staying in perfect form. If Steve safewords now, Bucky will comply, of course he will, but he wants to finish the mission.

At last, Steve’s footsteps retreat, and the water turns on in the kitchen sink. Bucky relaxes a fraction. Steve still has direct line of sight, but he’s not hovering. He’ll let this play out.

Bucky links his fingers below the collar at the back of his neck, entwining metal and flesh. It’s the only practical position, but it also gives him a bit more neck support when he curls in on himself, lifting his knees and putting his full weight into the collar. He holds it for only an instant, but that’s long enough to send alarm bells singing through his nerves. 

He tries again, not quite all his weight this time, and holds it for longer, every muscle in his body clenched tight and protesting. When he pushes himself back up and oxygen returns, pleasure floods into all the empty spaces the pain has carved out. Bucky’s cock stands hard against his belly, throbbing along with his heartbeat. Still, he needs more.

This time, Bucky slides his knees apart, slowly dropping weight down into the collar’s embrace. His pulse is rushing now, heart slamming against his chest as oxygen becomes a memory, and then there’s no more room for memories. There’s only the blur of sound gone fuzzy and vision shaded like night has fallen, vivid outline of every muscle in his body screaming, and the void. 

Before the last, velvety-black moment when his body won’t obey his commands, Bucky forces himself upright. The collar loosens, and as Bucky gasps for air, his body ignites with sensation. He can feel every ache, every bruise from the restraints, the insistent press of the plug inside him, the unbearable hardness of his cock, all painted over with a golden, euphoric glow.

He hadn’t heard the water turn off, but somehow Steve is there before him: Steve’s hot hand gripping Bucky’s cock, his fingers shoving against the base of the plug. Bucky wouldn’t have thought he had the breath to scream, but he screams all the same as his climax courses through him, concentrating his entire awareness into a release that pours out of him in hot, thick spurts, leaving no conscious thought behind.  
\--

Bucky comes to himself sitting in a full bath with no memory of how he got down from the table. Steve, dressed in Army sweats, sits on the rim of the tub, daubing a warm washcloth against Bucky’s neck. 

When Bucky hisses and pulls away, Steve draws back. He reaches out a hand to brush Bucky’s wet hair out of his eyes. “Welcome back.”

“Mmm.” Bucky stretches out in the hot water, glad to unfold his legs. He can see rope marks on his wrists, already faded to an angry red. They’ll be gone by morning. By the way Steve’s fussing, pressing his fingers to the hot skin there, Bucky’s neck is in worse shape. “Okay?” Bucky asks.

“I’m fine.” Steve’s smile is small, but it’s there. “You?”

“Mmm,” Bucky says again. He ducks under the water, but he doesn’t stay under the way he usually does, chasing the high. He finds he wants to breathe. When he comes up, Steve raises an eyebrow at him. “I asked if you were okay.”

“Yes.” Bucky’s voice sounds rough and hoarse, even to his own ears, but he continues with Steve’s required ritual of a sit rep. “Neck’s bruised up, as you can see, but functional. Wrists hardly worth mentioning, sore muscles, no other injuries. Happy?”

“Yes.” Steve stops prodding at him. “I’ve never seen you this relaxed.”

“Did I pass out on you?” Bucky smirks. “Surprised you could get me down, scrawny thing like you.”

“No, not passed out.” Steve brushes his thumb across Bucky’s cheek. “Floating. Completely gone. It’s a good look on you.” Bucky’s about to tell him to shut up, but Steve leans down and kisses him silent. He rests his forehead against Bucky’s, letting his hand linger in Bucky’s wet hair. “You should probably give the chatter a rest for at least a day. Give your throat a break.” 

“You wish.”

“It was worth a try.” With a chuckle, Steve sits up and reaches over to retrieve a glass from the counter.

Bucky takes it, squints at the contents. Orange juice. He considers giving Steve shit about this, too, but then he looks in Steve in the eye and says, “Thank you,” instead. 

He has to admit it’s a pretty magnificent feeling, on top of everything else today, to know that Steve will take care of him, whatever he needs.


End file.
